I liked Carol at first.
Unlike Diomedes, she was very open to speaking —after she recovered from seeing someone being turned into a guinea pig.
She looks nothing like Diomedes, even though she's his aunt. She's completely human, not a cloud nymph.
Carol is loud in the way sunshine is loud. Always glowing, always moving, always talking with her hands like she's trying to draw pictures in the air. She's soft in the places Diomedes is sharp—bright where he's muted, apologetic where he's silent. I remember thinking once that she must be his older sister, or cousin, or... I don't know, a neighbor who followed him here. But aunt? That still catches me off guard sometimes.
She doesn't carry herself like someone who survived a shipwreck. She doesn't have the thousand-yard stare a lot of us do. She flinches at loud noises, sure, and sometimes she stares off into space with this weird, aching look in her eyes. But then she blinks it away, and smiles, and starts offering snacks or telling a story about "the old days" like she's hosting a party.
It's disarming. I didn't trust it at first.
But after a while, I realized—Carol isn't pretending. She really is that warm. That helpful. That present. Like she has to be. Like if she stops for too long, she'll disappear.
I've seen her try to comfort kids who are crying by pretending to cry with them. I've seen her braid someone's hair with shaking hands because she was scared too, but she wanted them to feel normal. She's the kind of person who can't sit still if someone's in pain—not because she wants thanks, but because standing still feels worse than drowning.
I don't know what she's running from. But I know she loves Diomedes.
That part's obvious. They're essentially the same person.
The way she hovers behind him when she thinks he's tired. The way she offers him food and always acts like it's his choice—never pushing, just presenting. Like she knows better than to corner a wild animal, even if that animal is her nephew. I think she's afraid of spooking him. I don't blame her. Sometimes I am too.
But the thing is... he barely talks to her.
Not rudely. Not coldly. Just... distantly.
Like she's a stranger with his last name.
And that's the part I don't get.
Because Carol is sunshine. She's kind, clumsy, brave in the way I always wish I could be. She's good. And Diomedes, for all his intensity and bluntness and polite shut off behavior, is also good.
So why does he act like she's made of glass and teeth?
Why doesn't he look at her?
Why does his voice get even quieter when she's around?
I'm not used to mysteries anymore. Circe's island doesn't give us time for secrets. You either survive by knowing who someone is, or you don't. And I've gotten very good at reading people.
But with Diomedes and Carol?
Something's missing.
Something happened between them, and I don't know what.
But I want to.
Because I like Carol. And I trust Diomedes.
And if those two truths can't coexist... then I'm going to have to find out why.
So obviously I just asked him. We've been friends for a year and six months, what could go wrong?
I found Diomedes in the gardens, tending to the pomegranate trees. A while after he came here he'd decorated them with lilies and lotus'.
He didn't hear me approach, or maybe he did and just didn't care. His hands were dirty up to the wrists, sleeves rolled back neatly. He was humming something—barely audible—under his breath, something old and off-key, like a lullaby meant for someone who'd long since stopped needing it.
The lilies bobbed gently in the breeze. The lotus flowers, blue and pale and otherworldly, had curled into the crooks of the branches like they'd been there forever.
I stood behind him for a few breaths longer than I should've, unsure of how to start.
Eventually, he spoke without looking at me. "If you're here to ask about the stew, it's in the kitchen. Don't eat the red bowl, Hylla cursed that one so the Dryad who keeps stealing the flowers."
I blinked, startled. "Wait—Hylla cursed the stew?"
"She cursed the bowl," he clarified, still not looking at me. "Explodes into bees if you lie while eating it."
"That's... horrifying."
"She said it was poetic justice."
I stepped closer, scuffing my sandal in the dirt to make my presence clearer. "Not here for stew."
"Mm." He plucked a dead petal from one of the lotus blossoms and dropped it into the soil like it was a fallen star. "Didn't think you were."
I hesitated.
The wind stirred through the branches, rustling soft as breath. He moved with it—still, precise, like someone raised in silence. When I finally spoke, it felt like breaking something.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, quieter than I meant to.
Diomedes straightened up, wiped his hands on his tunic, and turned just enough to glance at me sideways. "You can always ask."
"That doesn't mean you'll answer."
He didn't deny it.
I folded my arms, trying to look casual. "It's about Carol."
At that, his shoulders tensed. Only slightly. Most people wouldn't have noticed. But I wasn't most people anymore.
He crouched back down and returned to the roots of the tree, fingernails working the dirt like it owed him answers.
"She's... good," I continued. "Loud. Funny. Kind. Like—really kind. She helps people even when she's shaking. That kind of kind."
Diomedes didn't respond.
"She talks about you like you hung the stars. You know that, right?"
A pause. Then: "She talks a lot."
"Yeah," I said, kneeling beside him. "But that doesn't make it empty."
He didn't meet my gaze.
"She looks at you like she's waiting for you to say something. Anything."
"I don't have anything to say."
"That's not true."
He finally turned to look at me. Not sharply. Not coldly. Just... flat.
"That's not your truth to dig up."
I flinched.
And he saw it. His expression softened. Just a little.
"I don't mean that to hurt you," he said. "But some things... aren't ready to be shared. Just because a wound stops bleeding doesn't mean it's healed."
I didn't know what to say to that.
But I couldn't stop now.
"She's not a wound," I whispered.
"No." His voice was soft. So soft it barely existed. "But she left one."
Something hollow cracked in my chest.
I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Did she... hurt you?"
Silence.
Diomedes looked back at the tree, like it was the only thing in the world he trusted.
"No," he said finally. "Not the way you think."
I watched him for a while, trying to read the silence. But there was too much in it. Too much buried. Too much deliberately unsaid.
He ran his hand along the roots again.
"She's good," he repeated. "She's kind. She saved me in her own way. But that doesn't mean she didn't... make mistakes."
"What kind of mistakes?"
He hesitated.
My mouth was dry.
"Dio—"
He shook his head. Not to silence me. To spare me.
"She tries. That's what matters now."
We sat there for a long time. The pomegranates ripened in the trees above us. The lilies shivered.
He pressed his palm to the dirt, like grounding himself.
"I don't not like her," he said finally. "I just... don't trust what she forgets."
I blinked. "What she forgets?"
"She means well," he said. "But she forgets how much things cost. Especially when she's not the one paying."
There was no anger in his voice—just tiredness.
I swallowed. "She loves you."
"I know."
"You don't love her?"
He looked at me then, expression unreadable. "I do."
"But?"
"But love doesn't fix everything." He stood, brushing off his hands. "Sometimes, it just makes the silence heavier."
Then he walked off, slow and quiet, like the garden had taken the last of his strength.
He stopped walking for a second, turning back to face me. "If you truly want answers, ask Carol about Briar. She was closer to her than I ever was."
With that said, he turned away, continuing his walk.
I stood there, more questions than I ever had before.
Who is Briar? What did she have to do with Diomedes and his aunt?
Well... he did say to ask Carol if I wanted answers.
I found Carol later that evening near the shore.
She was perched on a sun-warmed rock, hair tied up, braiding seaweed into rope. Her hands worked fast, practiced—like she was trying to beat the tide.
The sun dipped low behind her, casting gold across her shoulders, and for a moment, she looked like someone in a painting. Warm, alive, untouchable.
She didn't hear me approach, or if she did, she gave no sign of it. So I sat down beside her and waited.
"Need a hand?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
Carol startled slightly, then offered me a bright, crooked smile. "Only if you want one. I'm not in great company tonight."
"Perfect," I said. "Me neither."
She laughed, soft and surprised. "Fair enough."
We sat in silence for a while, her hands twisting the seaweed into a braid, mine just resting on my knees. The ocean murmured at our feet.
Eventually, I said, "I talked to Diomedes today."
Carol's fingers faltered—just a little. Barely a hitch in her weaving. "He alright?"
I nodded. "Yeah. He was in the gardens. Looked tired. Like always."
Carol gave a faint little smile. "That boy's been tired since the moment he was born."
She said it lightly, like it was a joke. But something in her tone stuck in my teeth. Like she was trying to make grief sound funny.
"He told me I should ask you about Briar."
The seaweed slipped through her fingers.
Her hands stilled. Then she looked out at the horizon like it had just become interesting for the first time all day.
"You don't know what you're asking," she said, voice low. "You don't want to know."
"I think I do."
Carol breathed in sharply through her nose. Her smile vanished.
Carol's hands clenched in her lap, seaweed forgotten.
"That's not a name you just say, Reyna," she said tightly. "Not unless you mean something by it."
I straightened, caught off guard by the shift in her voice. The warmth was gone. Her eyes stayed locked on the horizon, but her jaw was set hard, like she was holding her teeth in place with force.
"I didn't mean to overstep, I just—"
"Just nothing. You don't see me picking away at your bastard father, so leave Diomedes's mother to rest."
My face went hot at the mention of my father. I wanted to hit her.
"I can see why Diomedes doesn't talk to you." I grunted.
Carol finally turned to look at me, and something in her expression cracked—just for a second. It wasn't anger. Not really. It was fear. Shame. Like she already knew she'd gone too far.
"Reyna," she said, softer now. "I didn't mean—"
I didn't let her finish, instead; I hit her and walked away.
Carol didn't stop me.
She didn't yell after me. Didn't follow. Didn't even stand up from the rock.
I don't know if that made it better or worse.
The moment my fist landed, I regretted it—not because she didn't deserve it, but because it felt too small. Too human. Like trying to strike lightning with a match. I didn't want to hurt her. I wanted her to feel something. Understand something. See the weight she carried on Diomedes's back like barnacles on a drowned hull.
But she just sat there, still as driftwood, watching the tide.
I don't think she even raised a hand to shield herself.
Coward.
I stormed away, heels kicking up sand, fists tight and trembling. The world felt too loud—waves crashing, gulls shrieking overhead, blood roaring in my ears like war drums. I kept my head down until the beach gave way to gravel paths and flower-slick stone, and even then, I didn't stop.
I didn't know where I was going.
I just knew I needed to find Diomedes.
I found him by the cliffs.
The wind was stronger here, pushing at his hair, whipping his sleeves. He stood close to the edge—too close—like he belonged there. Like the sea wouldn't dare take him.
He didn't turn when I came up behind him.
"I hit her," I said.
His silence was the kind that makes your skin crawl. Not judgmental. Just... braced.
"I hit Carol," I said again. "She said something about my father and I—I lost it. I'm not sorry."
Still nothing.
I stepped closer. "She deserved it."
Finally, he sighed. "Yeahhh, that's Carol for you."
I blinked at him, expecting more. Maybe a wince. A scolding. A something.
But Diomedes just stood there, arms loose at his sides, eyes on the horizon like the world out there made more sense than the one behind him.
I stepped beside him, close enough to hear his breathing, slow and even like the waves below.
"You're not mad?"
"I didn't ask you to spare her," he said. "She doesn't spare people either. Not when she's cornered."
He looked down at the rocks far below, and I saw it—just for a moment—that flicker in his eyes. Like he remembered the sound of someone screaming from this height. Like he'd watched something fall and never stop falling.
I swallowed hard. "She said something about your mother. Briar."
Diomedes didn't speak. He didn't move.
So I pressed on.
"You told me to ask her, so I did. But she didn't tell me anything. She—she deflected. Got angry. And when I defended you, she brought up my father. Like she thought pain makes a fair trade. How'd she even know about my father? Only Hylla and Circe know what happened."
Diomedes paused, scratching his chin. "Well," he said. "She is a daughter of Luctus."
I paused. "Luctus... the personification of grief and mourning. That Luctus?"
I groaned, placing my face in my hands. "And I pissed her off."
Surprisingly, Diomedes shook his head no.
"Yes, she's upset that you brought it up. But she's going to feel guilty for how she reacted. Will that stop her from doing it again? Who knows."
He glanced sideways at me, that same quiet, unreadable calm in his expression. Like he was measuring the weight of the world and had already decided not to flinch.
"She's not good with being cornered," he said. "Grief and guilt, they don't sit still in her. They come out sideways. Sharp. Fast. Angry."
I exhaled slowly. "She said you were tired since birth."
"She's not wrong."
I didn't laugh, but something in me wanted to. Not because it was funny—but because it wasn't. Because there was a hollow kind of truth in it that felt too familiar.
"You're not going to ask why I hit her?" I said.
"I already know why."
"I don't even fully know why."
He gave a small shrug. "You don't like people who weaponize pain."
I blinked. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
I looked at him then—really looked. At the curve of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes, the set of his shoulders that always seemed braced for a fight that hadn't come yet. He looked so calm, so together, but I knew better now.
Diomedes wasn't calm because nothing touched him. He was calm because everything had.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He tilted his head. "For hitting her?"
"No. For not asking sooner."
That finally made him look away, eyes scanning the horizon again like it held the next chapter of a story he'd already lived too much of.
"I wasn't ready for you to ask," he admitted. "But I'm glad you did."
The wind picked up again, threading between us. I didn't move. Neither did he.
"Will you tell me about your mom?" I asked, gently this time.
"No... not yet."
We stood there a long while. No one spoke. The wind didn't ask us to.
I didn't push him. I'd learned that much, at least. That silence could be kinder than questions. That Diomedes needed space the way other people needed sleep—regularly, fully, and without warning. Sometimes, pressing too hard on a closed door only made it stay shut longer.
There was one thing I wanted to say.
I turned to Diomedes. "You're weirdly emotionally stable for a nine year old boy."
Diomedes turned to me and shrugged. "Mom was studying to be a therapist. I guess it rubbed off on me..."
He sat down on the cliff edge, crossing his legs, as if the drop didn't matter. Like he'd made peace with gravity a long time ago.
I stayed standing, arms crossed, heart still rattling in its cage. His calm was infectious, but it also made me want to scream sometimes. How could someone so... young be this composed? It felt unfair. Like he'd skipped childhood in exchange for knowing too much.
"That's not normal," I muttered.
Diomedes arched an eyebrow. "Neither is turning men into guinea pigs for minimum wage."